


Penrose Stairs

by callowyn, dragonspell, MoragMacPherson



Series: Not Such As I Was [5]
Category: Inception, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Groundhog Day, Multi, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callowyn/pseuds/callowyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stairs make four 90-degree turns as they ascend or descend yet form a continuous loop, so that a person could climb them forever and never get any higher. This is clearly impossible in three dimensions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday's child is full of grace

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, our profound thanks to our betas, Callowyn and Sistabro.

_February 12, 2008_

  
"What on Earth could have persuaded you to go to Pittsburgh in the middle of bloody January?" Eames asked Arthur from across the office while they took a late lunch. 'Office' was the polite term for 'cheapest room the client could rent out in a random Missile Crisis-era concrete bunker turned poultry farm' a few miles outside of Havana. At least on the second floor, the scent of chicken shit from the coops in the courtyard wasn't quite as pungent.  
  
"You know I despise Pittsburgh," Arthur replied around a mouthful of _arroz con pollo_.  
  
Eames grinned. "So why were you there?"  
  
Arthur leaned back in his chair and said, "I wasn’t," then ate another forkful.  
  
"I have your receipts." Eames looked down in front of his desk. "Going by Hammond this time, looks like. I've always been rather fond of that alias. It makes you sound even more dashing."  
  
Arthur finished chewing, swallowed, then leaned forward so that all four legs of the chair as well as his own feet were on the ground. "Eames?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why do you have my receipts?"  
  
"Because I lifted your wallet while you were unpacking lunch." Arthur didn't do anything so foolish as pat at his pocket: if Eames said he'd done it, he'd done it. "You really ought to clean it out more often. Mementos of three weeks ago? I expected it to be tidier."  
  
Arthur ignored the obvious distraction attempt. "Which again prompts the question: why?"  
  
"Have to make sure I'm still on top of my game. If I can make it with you, I can make it with anyone, can't I?" Eames hummed a few bars of “New York, New York” with a crooked-toothed leer, holding up Arthur's wallet. "I didn't take anything out or memorize any numbers, you have my word of honor." Eames tossed the wallet over; Arthur caught it and set it on top of his desk.  
  
Eames' word of honor actually _did_ mean something, so Arthur didn't have the need to check now (he would later). Seeing the receipts was bad enough. Arthur cleared his throat. "You are aware that I _have_ killed for less?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, very much so." Eames opening his own container of boliche. "Though I'm not looking forward to you murdering me on our next few practice runs, I'm hoping to encourage your creative side such that you'll find at least one method that surprises me. These are the prices professionals like ourselves must pay to keep our instincts sharp in this nasty business we call life." Arthur pondered the merits of stabbing Eames with his fork in this nasty business they called life. "You still haven't answered my question," added Eames.  
  
Arthur wanted to sigh, he wanted to shake his head, he wanted to grab Eames by the throat and throw him out of the window into the chicken coops outside. He wanted to ask, _Why the hell are you pushing this? Why are you forcing me to lie? Do you really need me to tell you that you were on Market Street wearing a pink and orange scarf and a ridiculous yellow beanie and smoking a cigarette on the day I left? Did you forget that when we aren't on the same side of a job, we don't_ talk _about that job? Do you really want me to tell you that I know about your open contract to find Lavoisier with Proclus Global_ and _the one with XanaCorp Enterprises? Do you want me to admit out loud that I will have no choice but to kill you if you ever give Sam Winchester so much as a sideways glance? I made a promise and I keep those and for the love of God, Eames, just shut the fuck up and don't try to be clever, just this once, because as annoying as you are I find your unfailing competence unhealthily attractive and you make me laugh sometimes when I want to die and I don't want to kill you, not most of the time, not really, except right now, when I really do._  
  
Arthur shrugged and said, "Nothing could convince me to go to Pittsburgh in the middle of January."  
  
"Arth—"  
  
"Certain parties may have been under the mistaken impression that events of interest to me were happening in Pittsburgh, but had they gone to Pittsburgh themselves, they would realize that things in Pittsburgh weren't nearly as interesting as rumored. They would have found a number of stupid people experimenting recreationally with a psychedelic plant that got themselves killed. Furthermore, the person who made all the noise about the situation turned out to be a determined and very well-spoken conspiracy theorist with a drinking problem, a Fentanyl problem, and an impressive collection of trucker hats. Said crank would also make sure to tell them all about the aliens that abducted him on the road in Ohio. For an hour or three at a time."  
  
Arthur took another bite of chicken before he continued. "Otherwise reliable observers may have come to those conclusions, but I'm sad to say that they still would have been wrong. Because the fact is that _nothing_ happened in Pittsburgh, and you can check the official records if you'd like. But of course, I can't say for certain, because even if something had happened in Pittsburgh last month, I wasn't there to see it. And if you ever think differently, then this is the last time you and I will work together and you will find that not many other people are willing to work with you either." Arthur dabbed his lips with a napkin, then flashed Eames a tight smile. "Are we clear?"  
  
Eames regarded him for several long moments before he nodded. "Clean-up job for the military then? Say no more. Though, given the terms on which you parted, I can't believe you're still willing to contract with them."  
  
Arthur snorted. "Enormous waste of time and a pain in my ass, but they dropped the assault charges on the Scofield case and it got three of my identities off the no-fly list, along with Thomas Gordon Sumner."  
  
Eames' eyes lit up. "Arthur! I didn't realize you cared."  
  
“Yes, well.” Arthur poked at his chicken. "I've kind of always liked that alias on you. Not that I had anything to do with it. And I ought to stab you for handing out my number." Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes?"  
  
"Arthur, I need you to cast your totem. Now," said Sam, his voice hoarse and panicked.  
  
Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. He didn't dare look up at Eames, he just reached into his pocket and grabbed the die. It felt right, but just in case, Arthur spun around and rolled it. "This is reality," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames nearly drop his lunch in a rush to check his own totem. Arthur glanced up and Eames mouthed _we're awake._ "My team just checked. We're definitely awake."  
  
Sam sounded like he was starting to cry. The sound echoed oddly, like he was in a small space, maybe a bathroom. It amplified those choked hitching noises that always made Arthur's eyes start to mist up too. "Fuck, I— but this doesn't really tell me anything, does it? Your projection might just be lying to me. Did they fucking catch me, Arthur? I—I thought we were being more careful with the car and everything but maybe, maybe you were right. God, I hope you find me soon, I can't—I can't take this much longer."  
  
"Hey, hey, hey. Deep breaths, come on, just relax. We're awake, okay? You're just... confused." These episodes happened sometimes, a side-effect of frequent Somnacin use. As far as Arthur knew, Sam hadn't used for years—that disaster of a dreamroot cocktail last month did _not_ count—but then, waking night terrors had been what brought him to Arthur in the first place. "Now, why did you need my totem? Did you lose yours?" Arthur glanced at his keys sitting on the desk, at the odd metal bead from Sam's bracelet that he'd taken to fondling during down time.  
  
"No. I've got it. It—it keeps coming up real."  
  
"Good, good, keep that in mind." Arthur opened up his laptop. "Where are you?"  
  
"Little town in Florida. Broward County."  
  
Less than three hundred miles away, but in order to get from Havana to Fort Lauderdale, Arthur would have to do some tricky maneuvering. Or call in some _major_ markers. Or both. "Okay. Do you remember how you got there?"  
  
Sam's voice broke again. "Sort of. I can remember—how I get to—it repeats, I know how I get here, but I don't know how I get back. That's the thing— shit, is this what Limbo feels like? You've never been to Limbo, you wouldn't know. I'm sorry for every time I made fun of you for being so scared of it. I should call Miles. Limbo would make sense. But why does _he_ keep dying?" asked Sam. "Maybe if I—"  
  
"Hey!" Arthur shouted. "Don't you— don't even start talking about that, asshole." Probably not the best tactic; Arthur tried to follow his own advice. "You need to slow down. Please, please, calm down, just listen to my voice and try to breathe." Eames mouthed the question _Who is it?_ Arthur scowled at him and shook his head as he opened up his notebook. "Miles is in Dhaka. I don't have his number, but I'll get it for you."  
  
Sam was hiccuping now and Arthur could hear the snot bubbles. "That—that'd be, please..."  
  
"I just need one second. Promise me you're won't do anything drastic while I'm getting the number." Arthur scrawled out 'Get the number and then get me a flight to Miami, NOW!' in his notebook and flashed it at Eames, who pulled out his phone. "Just for a little bit. I need you to trust me when I say we're all awake and this isn't Limbo or a dream or anything else." Except for possibly a psychotic break, but Arthur would worry about that once he got there.  
  
" _Then what the fuck else could it be?_ " Sam screamed in a voice that ripped Arthur's heart in two, loud enough for Eames to hear it and blanch.  
  
On the other end of the line, Sam was now openly sobbing. In the background Arthur could hear a door being kicked in and Dean yelling, "Fuck, Sam, what is _wrong_ with you today?"  
  
"Hey, hey, maybe you should let me talk to your brother," said Arthur, words that he'd never thought would ever pass his lips—but he'd never heard Sam like this, not once, not when Jess had died, not even while exploring his nightmares.  
  
But Sam wasn't listening to Arthur. "Dammit, Dean! I told you not to touch the guns today, go put it—no, don’t, I’ll do it myself.” The sound of a scuffle, and something indistinct from Dean. Sam’s voice got more desperate. “Dean, give it to me. Just give me the gun, now. I mean it." Arthur hoped against all evidence that Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to arm someone in Sam's condition.  
  
"I'll give you the gun after you give me the phone and tell me what the fuck's going on," Dean shouted.  
  
Eames tapped Arthur on the shoulder, his scrawl utterly, deadly legible. 'You can be there in ten hours legit commercial, seven if I can put together some papers, four if we both give the Grajales cartel a marker and don't get caught, here's Miles' hotel number, Ivan and Stella understand.'  
  
"Thank you," Arthur whispered at Eames and pointed at 'Grajales cartel'. Dean was still yelling in the background and Arthur needed to get Sam's attention back. Arthur gave Eames one glance and decided, for once, to hope. "Sam. Sam. Sam!"  
  
"Yeah, yes — Dean, I mean it, gimme the goddamn gun!"  
  
Arthur heaved out a breath. "Sam, I'm on my way to you, it'll be a couple hours, I'll find you, just stay where you are and don't—"  
  
"That won't be fast en—" Sam started, but then there was a sickening, wet, bone-crunching sound. Human skull against porcelain, if Arthur had to put money on it. The cold facts passed through the front of his mind while his heart dropped out of his chest. Then he heard Sam whimper, "Fuck. Dean!" before the phone cut out.  
  
Eames stared at Arthur, white as a sheet. "What the hell was that?"  
  
Arthur couldn't stop looking at the phone. "I have no ide—  
  
~*~  
  
Arthur generally slept well in Cuba, whenever his job permitted him to actually sleep in the country. This job was not one of those times. Arthur rolled over, saw it was 7:30, grabbed the ringing phone, and mumbled, "Yes?"  
  
"Hi, need you," said Sam.  
  
Arthur flopped over again, rolled his die, and confirmed this was waking reality. He grunted. "I was working until five this morning, I'm sleeping now, you already owe me, call again in two hours."  
  
"I need you to get to Miami as soon as you can."  
  
"I'm in the middle of a job, I'm exhausted, and I'm not your fucking errand boy."  
  
"Dean and I are holed up in a shitbag motel and there are thugs from XanaCorp Enterprises sitting in a van outside my door," said Sam. The reply came a little too quick, but Sam did sound desperate.  
  
Arthur rubbed grit out of his eyes. "I'm... I'm really not in the best position to get to Miami right now."  
  
"Call your contact in the Grajales cartel, they'll be the fastest."  
  
Arthur sat up in his bed. "What? How the fuck do you know—? What's going on over there?"  
  
Sam had the decency to sound embarrassed. "I'll explain later. They're the quickest way to get you from Cuba to Florida and I _need_ you here."  
  
"Well, that's something of a change from the last few times we talked," said Arthur, feeling just a little bitter. "Why do you _need_ me?"  
  
"Because if you decide someone's going to live until tomorrow, then they will," Sam said, like it was gospel truth. "There's no one better," he added, and that almost made Arthur's eyes sting. "Please."  
  
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and swung his legs off the bed. One day he'd say no to Sam. Somehow. "Okay, I'll be there in a couple of hours. Just, hold tight, okay?"  
  
Sam sounded hopeful for the first time in the conversation. "We will. We'll try, we'll—hold on—" Arthur heard something in the background that might have been Dean, then Sam called back, "You'll thank me when it's Wednesday!"  
  
Arthur wiped his eyes, starting to reconsider his offer. He'd forgiven Sam a lot of things over the years but this was really beginning to sound like a practical joke. "Sam, can you tell me what's going on?"  
  
"Not really, I don't—" Sam stopped. "Dean?" he gasped, and the phone cut out.  
  
Arthur picked up his die, just to make sure he'd seen it right the first time. He rolled a—  
  
~*~  
  
Eames' eyes lit up. "Arthur! I didn't realize you cared."  
  
“Yes, well.” Arthur poked at his chicken. "I've kind of always liked that alias on you. Not that I had anything to do with it. And I ought to stab you for handing out my number." Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes?"  
  
"Hi, Arthur," said Sam.  
  
Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. He fought the urge to glare at Eames: with Eames there, he couldn't scream at Sam about proper precautions because come on, they'd _just had this talk_. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked instead.  
  
"Don't hang up and don't worry. I just wanted to tell you a few things."  
  
Arthur gazed up at the heavens, wondering what the hell he'd done to deserve both Sam and Eames acting up at the same time. "And what makes you think I’ll listen?"  
  
"It's demon blood," Sam said quickly.  
  
Arthur paused. That sounded serious, but if this was one of their codes, it wasn't one Arthur remembered. "I'm sorry, I think I missed that. Try again?"  
  
Sam laughed, the little prick. "It's not code, Arthur. You always said you wanted to know, right? I promised you I'd never lie about my past. So, just as an experiment, I'm going to see what happens when I don't hide it."  
  
"Uh, okay." Arthur felt more than a little confused.  
  
Sam took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes: I have a little bit of demon blood, that's why my dreams are so clear and stable. I used to have some psychic powers in reality too, but I haven't had any visions since we killed Azazel."  
  
"Killed who?"  
  
"Azazel, the yellow-eyed-demon who killed my mother and Jess. Try to keep up."  
  
"This isn't funny."  
  
"It isn't, is it? You should try living it for awhile. My mom died when she caught Azazel feeding me his blood when I was a baby, that's why Dad took us out on the road. We're professional demon hunters." Christ, Sam sounded serious. "And monster hunters, we kill a lot of those too. The reason I've been so freaked out lately is because after this other guy with demon blood killed me last year, my brother sold his soul to bring me back, and on my birthday hell hounds are going to show up and rip him to shreds. I've spent the last nine months trying to figure out how to save him, and you know what, that's really not funny anymore either." Sam still sounded serious, but his voice was starting to edge toward manic.  
  
Arthur clenched his jaw. "Are you high?"  
  
"I wish. That's the truth I've been hiding from you all these years. Also, there's a pretty good chance I'm the Antichrist. I don't think it's contagious, though, so you shouldn't worry."  
  
Whatever face Arthur was making, it had Eames alarmed enough that he was standing up and coming over to check on him. "I— what?"  
  
"I told you it was crazy. Now you know. Go ahead and check your totem: you're not dreaming." Arthur froze, a little freaked out about the fact that he'd already been reaching for the die when Sam spoke. He dutifully checked it: at the very least, Arthur was awake.  
  
After the silence stretched out a few moments too many, Sam sighed. "It's not because I don't trust you. It's because my life is seriously fucked up and no one should have to put up with this shit. Especially not you."  
  
Arthur cleared his throat. "Any particular reason you decided to tell me now?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, but that doesn't matter," Sam said, resigned to... something.  
  
Arthur opened up his laptop. "I, uh. Tell me where you are, I think we need to talk about this in person." He dashed off a quick e-mail to Mal: _Sam's having a psychotic break, get packed, more details when I have them._  
  
Sam sighed. "Wish we could. But you can't get here in time. You've tried, but it looks like we're all just stuck where we are on Tuesday. I just... between this and everything else, I was sick of lying. I wanted to see how this would go. But I guess it's going about as badly as I expected. You think I'm nuts, don't you?"  
  
Arthur paused. "I didn't say that."  
  
"I heard you typing. You can check— I've been using the Oblivion File as a journal. You'll find all of the evidence you need there. I'm not crazy, not yet." Sam said, and he sounded _ancient_. "Give me a few more Tuesdays."  
  
Arthur felt his heart lurch up into his throat. "Just... tell me where you are. Maybe Mal can get there if I can't."  
  
"She can't. Unless the universe is genuinely conspiring against me and this is the day Dean actually survives, in which case, I guess I'll see you soon. Love you."  
  
"But where—" Arthur began, but the line cut off. He fell out of his chair when Eames put a hand on his shoulder. "Jesus," he yelped, stumbling down to his knees.  
  
Eames had the decency to look apologetic. "Sorry, it's just that— you look a bit stricken. Is everything all right?" he asked, offering Arthur a hand.  
  
His hand was warm, strong, and solid around Arthur's: everything Arthur needed at that moment. "No, I don't think it is," Arthur told him.  
  
"Can I help?" Eames asked.  
  
"I don't—  
  
~*~  
  
Arthur settled his plate of _arroz con pollo_ in his lap, tipping his chair back to get a little more comfortable. Even though he technically slept for a living, this particular job left him exhausted, in part because of the heat, in part because of a difficult mark, and in part because Eames thought it was fun to 'keep him on his toes' when they worked together.  
  
His fork hadn't even touched the plate when his phone rang. Arthur twitched, the chair slipped, and then he was falling backwards.  
  
 _Really?_ was his first thought, watching his rice fly like fireworks, followed by: _Eames is never going to let me live this down._ Then the back of his head hit the concrete floor at exactly the wrong angle and he _really_ saw fireworks.  
  
After that his vision went kind of dim. Everything felt distant. The damn phone was still ringing, and somewhere over him Eames was not acting at all like himself. Eames hardly ever shouted; when Eames was angry, he got quiet. And Eames wouldn’t let his face twist in all those horrible ways just because Arthur had fallen down.  
  
Someone was stroking his cheek, pushing his fingers through Arthur's hair. Eames was also talking. "Arthur, darling, stay with me. Don't try to move."  
  
Arthur would have smiled but it felt like too much work. Even moving his mouth was getting difficult. The phone was ringing again. "You should get that," he muttered.  
  
The last thing Arthur heard was Eames shrieking, "Arthur can’t come to the bloody phone because you've gone and likely killed him, you fucking twit!"  
  
~*~  
  
Arthur had his fork halfway to his mouth when his phone started ringing. He sighed, set his lunch aside, and answered. "Yes."  
  
"I wish you were here," said Sam, his voice low and warm.  
  
Arthur felt his eyes bug out of his head. Not-speaking of the fucking devil. "What's going on?" he asked. This was not how their phone calls started. Ever.  
  
"There's somebody with you right now."  
  
Arthur frowned and glanced at Eames. "Yes, but I can go somewhere a little more—"  
  
"Don't," said Sam and it was a _command_. Arthur froze. "Want you to stay right there at your desk. It's almost a hundred degrees in there and you've got your sleeves rolled up but you're still wearing your tie, aren't you?"  
  
Sam had it exactly right, actually, but Arthur's response to the words wasn't exactly... verbal.  
  
"You can turn towards your desk. Pull out your moleskine if you need an excuse." Arthur did both. There was a promise in Sam’s words, a hint of what was to come, and Arthur was waiting. Waiting and listening.  
  
“Of course you’re wearing your tie,” Sam continued. “You’re always wearing your tie.” A sigh shivered through the line and Arthur closed his eyes. He could picture Sam, right there, in the room, standing just behind him, breathing into his ear. “Always wanted to...” Sam brought himself up short, then finished with a growl. “Wanted to fuck you in it and nothing else.”  
  
Arthur flicked his eyes over to Eames, ice water in his veins, chased by a heat he didn’t want to admit to. “You—”  
  
“But this time I wouldn’t want to wait. I wouldn’t have the patience to get you naked. Probably rip your shirt if I tried. I'd just go straight for your cock, wouldn't even push those fancy suit pants down further than your knees cause you'd already have gotten them messy just thinking about me, wouldn't you?”  
  
“Presumptuous,” Arthur said. Presumptuous of Sam to think that he could. Presumptuous to think that Arthur would allow it.  
  
“Would you mind?” Sam asked, and there was a thread of amusement in his voice.  
  
Arthur swallowed, his eyes fluttering closed again. He was about to have a problem with his suit pants right now and Sam wasn’t even in the room. “No.”  
  
Sam growled into the phone, the sound rumbling past Arthur’s ear. “I like that,” he said and Arthur was reaching out, needing something to ground himself. His fingers closed over his keys, the metal jingling, and he smoothed his thumb over the small metal bead. “If you were here, I’d bend you right over. If I was there. Take you against that desk.”  
  
Arthur could _feel_ Eames' eyes on his back but he couldn't—Sam had told him to stay put. He so desperately wanted to move, find somewhere quiet to take care of the problem pressing against his zipper. He wanted to listen to what Sam said. Arthur took a breath to steady himself, grasping at the control he felt slipping. His keys dug into his palm, reminding him of where he was, of what was happening. Jesus, Eames was _right there_ —but whatever Sam’s game was, Arthur knew he wasn’t going to hang up.  
  
He could hear Sam breathing, harder than normal, a harsh panting that seemed to echo. “Are you listening?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you hard yet, Arthur? I’d be working you open right about now. You’d be tight. Always so damn tight.” There were sounds echoing through the phone, a slick, familiar slide that had Arthur unable to breathe. Sam’s voice was starting to rasp and Arthur bit his lip. Fuck. “Touch yourself.”  
  
“What?” Arthur sucked in a lungful of air and stared straight ahead again. “I can’t.” Eames was eyeing Arthur with a detached curiosity that wouldn’t remain indifferent for long.  
  
“Touch yourself,” Sam repeated, harsher and deeper. Arthur dropped the keys on the desk and brought his fingers up to his neck, lightly tracing his skin before digging in to the muscle at the join of his shoulder, aware of his audience. “Not like that,” Sam said with a chuckle, and Arthur froze, wondering how Sam knew. “ _Touch_ yourself, Arthur.”  
  
Oh, _God_. Arthur trailed his hand southward, trying to be subtle, and kept his breathing slow and easy. He didn’t want to give himself away. He flicked open the top button and heard Sam sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, are you there yet? Do you have your pants undone? Do you have your dick out or do you just have a hand down your underwear?”  
  
“Christ.” Arthur flattened his palm against his stomach and pushed it below his waistband, reaching down to grasp himself tightly. “The...the latter. Asshole.” He inched the zipper downward, trying not to make a sound.  
  
“Modest,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t be so modest if I was there.” His voice was a growling purr that sent a thrill racing down Arthur’s spine.  
  
“That so?” Arthur said, completely failing to sound disinterested. His fingers squeezed around the base of his dick to keep himself in check.  
  
“Couldn’t be modest with your pants around your ankles and my dick in your ass.” Jesus, but Sam didn’t fight fair. Arthur moved his hand slowly over himself, using only his wrist. He shouldn’t be so close already, not with Eames sitting just across the room, not with Sam God knew how many miles away, but Arthur was caring about that less and less. If he closed his eyes he could imagine that Sam there with him, the only ones in the room. That it was Sam’s hand on him instead of his own.  
  
“I’d make you come all over that desk,” Sam said, voice dropping even lower. “Ruin all those neat piles you’ve been making, trying to pretend I’m not talking you off right now. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t give a damn about your papers if I was holding you down on top of them.”  
  
“Yes...” The word was more of a hiss than anything else. God, the things Sam’s voice did to Arthur shouldn’t even be legal. Just his voice.  
  
“Hold you just by your hips while I was pounding into you, wouldn’t even need to touch you to make you come. Are you thinking about that? Thinking about how I’d feel? How I’d make you feel?”  
  
Arthur let his mouth drop open, needing air, trying to be careful. His fingers were deliberate, tight as they stroked. There was only one way that this was going to end. Christ, Eames was going to _know_ ; Arthur was lucky if Eames didn't know already.  
  
“Then I’d pull you back up by your tie,” Sam rasped, “Hold you against me while I fucked you, hold you tight. I’d leave marks all the way down your throat, high enough that you wouldn’t be able to hide them. Mark you everywhere. Let you know, let everyone know. _God._ ”  
  
Sam was close, impossibly close; Arthur remembered what he sounded like. Sam’s grip would be getting rougher, his thrusts faster, and Arthur couldn’t think beyond _Sam_. He could already hear the steady, wet sound of Sam’s fist speeding up. Arousal stabbed deep into Arthur’s gut and he felt pleasure starting to knot together, tightening his body.  
  
He bit down hard, savaging his lip as he choked back a moan, and then he felt himself soak his underwear, the fabric going wet and sticky around his hand, and— _Fuck_ , he thought, tipping forward, _Oh fucking Christ_.  
  
His head bowed over the desk as he finished. He was breathing too hard, completely obvious, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Eames’s eyes could burn a hole straight through him.  
  
“Oh fuck yeah,” Sam breathed. “Oh fuck. You came, didn’t you? You fucking came. God, that’s so damn—oh _fuck_ , Arthur—” Sam panted into Arthur’s ear, whining and growling as he came, and Arthur drank it all in, jealous of the noise, grateful for it. “Shit,” Sam whispered as he came down from his high. “Oh, shit, I needed that.”  
  
Arthur stifled the irrational urge to start laughing and stared down at the desk. His arousal was draining out of him and cold, hard reality began to set in, brought front and center by the sound of Eames standing up. “Fuck,” Arthur said quietly. Sam was hundreds of miles away, the asshole; _he_ wouldn’t have to explain. As far as Eames was concerned, Sam was just some disembodied voice on the other side of a telephone. Arthur was stuck here.  
  
A fist pounded on the door and Arthur jerked upright before he realized that the sound was coming from the phone. “Sam, what the hell are you doing in there?” came Dean’s voice. Arthur cut his eyes over to Eames, who had frozen, staring at him with both eyebrows raised.  
  
“I’m having sex with my boyfriend!” Sam shouted and Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it, just barely catching Dean’s shocked “ _What?_ ”  
  
Eames echoed Dean with a great deal more unholy glee. "Arthur, I didn’t know you had it in you. On the job, no less. How terribly unprofessional." Arthur could feel his cheeks start to burn, watching Eames stare at the spreading dark stain on his pants. "If you were that hard up, all you ever have to do is ask, love," said Eames, licking his lips.  
  
Arthur was going to have to shoot him, there was no other way to recover from this. "Eames," he began—


	2. Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe

  
_March 3, 2008_  
  
If Sam had really wanted to surprise Arthur with his visit, he should have gotten rid of that fucking car. He didn’t even have the sense to park it more than two blocks away from Arthur's house. Clearly they needed to have another talk about conspicuousness—one which wouldn't involve Arthur's Glock only because he knew for certain that Eames was on a Monte Carlo-bound jet at this very moment, which meant that Sam's (or more likely, Dean's) idiocy wasn't going to get Sam caught this time. Arthur did have to give Sam some credit, though; it looked like his lock-picking and alarm-disabling skills had gotten even sharper over the last couple of years.  
  
Arthur set his groceries calmly on the counter. "You showed up just in time for dinner. The least you two assholes can do is help me put this stuff away," he called out.  
  
"Just the one asshole," said Sam, leaning on the threshold.  
  
It had only been a month and a half since that whole mess with the _Silene capensis_ that Arthur'd had to un-happen, but it must have been a hell of a month. Sam looked like _shit_. His cheeks had hollowed out and he was shivering despite the seventy-five degree heat. If Arthur had to guess, he'd say that Sam hadn't eaten in almost a week.  
  
"Where's the other one?" Arthur asked, opening the cupboards and unloading groceries, leaving out the ingredients he'd planned to use for dinner with the Cobbs on Wednesday. Dean was an idiotic, reckless prick with an attitude problem, but Sam loved his brother. If anything had happened to Dean...  
  
"We had to split up for a little. Get the FBI off of our tails." It came out a little too practiced, but Sam's expression deterred Arthur from calling him on it. "I've got a job I could use your help with."  
  
Arthur folded the empty paper sacks flat and leaned against the counter. "You're asking _me_ for help with the family business."  
  
"You're the one who's been asking all of these years," said Sam, his tone flat. "I just need someone who can do a quick, thorough, global search for a particular pattern."  
  
"Pattern of what?"  
  
"Deaths, usually," Sam said, and he stopped, looking Arthur in the eye before letting out a single, bitter laugh. "Ironic deaths."  
  
"'Ironic deaths'? What the hell does that mean?"  
  
"I've got some files, I can show you examples.” Sam held up a manila folder. “The M.O. varies, but you're gonna have to trust me that they're all the same guy. I need to find him."  
  
Arthur folded his arms. "So that's the family business? You're vigilantes."  
  
"Sometimes," Sam said.  
  
Years of thinking up worst case scenarios to explain the Secret Too Dangerous To Know and the Winchesters were just a tiny, migrant Mafia? Did Sam think Arthur was that untrustworthy? That inept? "Sam, I'm on the wrong side of the law more often than not these days, you could’ve—I wouldn’t judge you for something like that."  
  
Sam’s jaw jumped, and Arthur narrowed his eyes. "There's more?" Somehow, he found he was relieved.  
  
Sam's gaze shifted towards the door. "You know what, this was a mistake."  
  
"Of course I'll do it," Arthur said before Sam could bolt. "You know someone better? Hand over the files—and move that fucking car into the garage.” Arthur threw his own keys to Sam a little harder than the distance warranted. “Didn't we just have this conversation?"  
  
Sam blinked, but after a minute he handed Arthur the mess of print-outs and news clippings. Arthur flipped it open; Sam's handwriting hadn't gotten any better since college. If anything, it was worse now: lines less even, letters more cramped, all of it blotchier. And that didn't even begin to address the seemingly random contents of the file. Arthur glanced up and regarded Sam for a long moment. It _could_ just be exhaustion; Sam had looked stretched in Pittsburgh. But given long enough, stretching led to snapping.  
  
"Go deal with the damn cars," Arthur barked. Sam scowled as he trudged out the door, but anger was better than that blank mask Sam was using to conceal God knew what. Once Sam had slammed the door, Arthur pulled out his phone and sent Mal a quick text. _Sam's here, very possibly having psychotic break. Trying not to spook him. More details when I have them._  
  
By the time Sam finished shuffling the cars, Arthur had shrimp simmering in lemon butter and a pot of water on its way to boiling. He also had his laptop open, all of Sam's articles spread out on the table in the closest approximation of a sane pattern that Arthur could come up with, and an open beer in his hand. He waved his bottle at Sam. "There's one for you by the stove; stir the sauce while you're up."  
  
Arthur could sort of see what Sam meant by ironic deaths, but the pattern, if there was one, looked like it had been created by one of those morons who tried to tell the future by putting letters from the Bible into an arbitrary grid. Batshit. Arthur's lips quirked to the side and he looked up: Sam was dumping vermicelli into the now-boiling water, beer untouched.  
  
"I'm taking your word for it that these are all the same guy," said Arthur. "You said you want a global search?"  
  
Sam nodded, unwashed hair falling in his face and getting caught in the scruff on his cheeks. "Guy gets around faster than you do. Putting a timeline together would be nice, but ongoing clusters would be even more helpful. Wherever he is, that's where I've got to go."  
  
"Does he have a name, or a known set of aliases? Or a picture, even if he uses disguises?"  
  
Sam shook his head. "There's a couple of photos in there but... he's too good to be caught like that. The deaths are the thing to focus on, trust me."  
  
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "This isn't going to be a smash and grab, you understand? It's not like any of these articles are saying 'just deserts' or anything like that."  
  
Sam stirred the shrimp. "Can you do it or not?"  
  
Arthur sighed. "There are a couple of different sorting algorithms I can work with. It's just going to take some time, and then one hell of a distraction to keep anyone from noticing what I'm doing." Of course, there was one trick he'd been waiting for an excuse to use ever since they extracted from that DNS expert...  
  
"How long?"  
  
"If I start right after dinner and don't want to be assassinated for publicly destroying the internet as we know it?" Arthur took a sip. "Call it four days." Which would also be long enough for Arthur to either talk sense into Sam or get him into an appropriate institution.  
  
Sam nodded. "If you're going to keep my car locked up, is there a cheap hotel in walking distance?"  
  
"You're kidding me, right?" Arthur stood up and walked over to Sam, grabbing the spoon out of his hand. "Sit down, dumbfuck." After a second of glaring, Sam grunted and retreated to the table. Arthur finished assembling dinner and set the plates down on the table, as well as Sam's untouched beer. "There's a guest bedroom, if you want it." Arthur didn't have to mention the alternative option. "Maintaining low visibility would be a good idea, don't you think? Also, I'm going to need you on hand. When it comes to creating search parameters for 'ironic deaths', I suspect you're going to be a little more imaginative than me— Oh, for Christ's sake." Arthur reached across the table and took a sip of Sam's beer then stole a few noodles off of Sam's plate and ate those too. "Satisfied?" Arthur asked, rolling his eyes.  
  
Sam's eyes remained narrow and his face otherwise expressionless, but he did start eating and drinking. "In the meantime, you're going to get some fucking sleep. Regular sleep. I can hook you up to the PASIV if you want to control your dreams, but sleep one way or another. You get fucking weird when you're sleep deprived."  
  
"If I wanted someone to mother me, I would have gone to Mal," Sam muttered.  
  
Arthur gave Sam a tight grin. "You want my help? I'm not giving it to a zombie." Sam didn't reply. Arthur nursed his beer and waited for Sam to finish eating. "Guest bedroom's at the end of the hall, past the bathroom. Linens are in the chest at the foot of the bed. You need me to make up the bed or can I start coding already?"  
  
Sam scowled. "I can make my own fucking bed."  
  
Arthur stood and collected their plates. "You could also consider showering. Just saying."  
  
Sam didn't dignify this with a response, but by the time Arthur finished loading the dishwasher, he could hear the shower running down the hall. He sent Mal another text. _Holding back for now. Still skittish and he's hiding something. Dean is MIA._  
  
It took Arthur about two hours to code an exploit that would compromise seven of the thirteen root DNS servers, thereby giving him enough time to search through any online record he wanted—once he convinced Sam to actually explain who he was looking for.  
  
Mal returned his text just as he was finishing. _James has ear infection but i've called mother. she can be here in 2 days. keep him close if things change call tout de suite. dom will help you handle him._ Arthur scrubbed his face, looked from the message to the articles on the table to the cyber-equivalent of a hydrogen bomb on his computer. After a moment he erased the texts. He owed Sam the benefit of the doubt.  
  
Arthur locked up and reset his security system, then went to the guestroom to check on Sam. To his mild surprise, he didn't find Sam there, only his duffel. Instead Sam was asleep, hair still wet and fully dressed except for his boots, on top of the quilt in Arthur's bed. His thumb was stuck inside the copy of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ he'd given to Arthur his sophomore year; at least he'd left Arthur's bookmark in place. All of the photos on Arthur's bookshelf had been moved as well; the most recent pictures of James and Phillipa were now on his bed stand. Arthur sighed and picked up the book. He thought about waking Sam, but who knew how long it had been since he’d last slept? Instead Arthur changed into a set of pajama bottoms, turned off his alarm clock, and slid under the covers. After a moment or two, he lifted his arm out above the covers to lie across Sam's waist.  
  
The soft flannel of Sam’s shirt brushed against his nose. Arthur shifted subtly closer and just inhaled that smell, the smell a part of him still thought would mean 'home' one day. Arthur had always and would always give Sam anything he asked for. If only the kid could bring himself to actually ask for it.  
  
About an hour later, Sam shifted out from under Arthur, waking him. "Something wrong?" Arthur asked, sitting up.  
  
In the dim light, Arthur saw Sam wiggle his hips and kick his legs. "Feels like my nuts got caught in a vise," Sam said, his voice still sleep-slurred.  
  
"So take your jeans off and come back to bed." Something in Arthur's chest tightened. They'd had this conversation many times before, years ago, and so much had changed since then but Arthur's response hadn't at all. Would Sam's?  
  
"'kay." Sam fumbled with the fly and the buttons on his shirt, but managed to strip down to his undershirt and boxers without falling over. He still left the clothes on the ground where they fell and sort of lurched back into bed. Arthur didn't move a muscle as Sam slid under the sheets, wrapped one long, hairy leg around Arthur's, and fell back to sleep within seconds.  
  
Gingerly, Arthur slid down the headboard and laid his head back down on Sam's shoulder. Out of habit he pushed Sam's hair behind his ear, and let his hand come to rest on Sam's hip.  
  
"I miss you so much sometimes," Sam mumbled, not really awake. His arm curled around Arthur's waist, his palm open and hot against Arthur's bare skin, spanning nearly the breadth of Arthur's lower back. Sam could crush Arthur like this: just wrap tighter and tighter around him until he swallowed Arthur whole.  
  
The words _love you too_ stalled on Arthur's lips. Not yet: there were too many _I love you but..._ s left to clear up before saying it aloud sounded like anything other than a jinx. He dropped a kiss on Sam’s temple instead, and Sam curled closer like he’d forgotten it wasn’t 2003. Arthur fell asleep letting himself pretend that it was.  
  
~*~  
  
Arthur woke up entirely tangled with Sam. He could feel Sam's pulse against his lips; strands of too-long hair tangled in Arthur's eyelashes when he opened them. Arthur's left elbow cradled the side of Sam's head while his right arm draped over Sam's chest, trapped under Sam's left arm, which had migrated just a bit south in the night so that his fingertips edged under Arthur's waistband, the little perv. Meanwhile Sam's right arm wrapped up and around Arthur's back, fingers slotted along Arthur's ribs. Their legs remained twined together with the slight bulge under Arthur's pajama pants nestled comfortably in the crease of Sam's hip. Arthur gave himself a pat on the back for remembering to shut off the alarm clock—if Sam startled awake in this position, there would be bruising on both sides.  
  
And now that Arthur had this back, he could admit to himself how much he still wanted it. He hadn't had sex since Sam gave him that bonus blowjob back in January. As tempting as Eames was— and after nearly four years and a half dozen drunken or near-death makeout sessions, Arthur couldn't deny the attraction — taking him up on his advances never felt right. Somehow Arthur knew that once he gave in to Eames, it would mean he'd given up on ever keeping _this_.  
  
Sam's stomach growled loudly; he answered his own body with an annoyed sniff and grumble, his hands pulling Arthur even closer. He felt Sam wake up, breath hitching and muscles tensing as he registered their positions much as Arthur had a minute or so before. Arthur tilted his neck up and to the side so that he could see Sam's face when his eyes opened, before Sam was awake enough to hide anything.  
  
Sam's first expression of mild surprise and disorientation was to be expected; what sucked the air out of Arthur's lungs was the flash of utter despair that followed. The tell-tale anguished furrow between Sam's eye brows appeared at the same time as his lips and that one muscle in his left cheek twitched. Arthur felt his own face fall even as Sam swallowed and sucked on his lower lip. Arthur dropped his gaze, trying to extract himself. "Sorry, Sam, I'm—"  
  
Sam's limbs went rigid, trapping Arthur properly now. "Arthur, no, it's not—" But however he'd intended to finish the sentence, it wasn't something he could make himself speak aloud.  
  
Arthur watched the neutral mask return. Poor Sam could never quite rein in his eyes, though; they flickered to the side, still too wide and a little glassy. Arthur pulled Sam's face in closer, pressing a chaste peck on Sam's lips. "It's okay," he said, but Sam bit his own lip and and shook his head. Their lips brushed together, then they were kissing before Arthur caught himself and pulled back. "It's not okay?" he whispered, and Sam nodded, but pressed his mouth to Arthur’s again rather than elaborate.  
  
The kisses grew deeper and Arthur felt Sam harden against his thigh. "Can I— is this better?" Arthur asked, shifting his leg so that it rubbed against Sam's dick.  
  
"I need—please," Sam whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut even as his hips rolled up into Arthur's. "Please," he repeated, and fuck, whoever it was that had hurt or killed Dean, Arthur was going to hunt them down and make them suffer, then he was going to figure out a way to save Dean. If necessary, Arthur would drag him back from wherever his soul had gone just to beat the shit out of him for reducing Sam to this.  
  
But first, Arthur would make things better for Sam, for both of them, just for a little while. "Let me," he said, and Sam relaxed enough for Arthur to get them both undressed with relative ease.  
  
Sam's kisses kept turning into something starving and desperate; Arthur had to push him back down by the sternum to keep Sam from chasing after Arthur's lips. Christ, he remembered Sam was _big,_ but feeling him in his hand again was something else. Arthur crouched back on his knees between Sam's legs, murmuring wordless reassurances the whole time — Sam and sex and words had never really mixed together well for Arthur— so that he could lick a stripe along Sam's cock from root to tip. Sam’s whole body spasmed, tried to curl in on itself, but Arthur held him down, sucking harder, and after a few seconds Sam flopped back and moaned. Arthur looked up at him: Sam's head was thrown back against the pillow, his eyes still locked shut. Something in Arthur's gut twisted.  
  
He pulled his lips off of Sam's cock. This wasn't about Arthur giving Sam a way out, it was about what Arthur could do if Sam let him back in. Arthur kept working Sam's dick with his hand, but nosed down Sam's groin, pausing to give his balls a quick, teasing lick, before swirling the tip of his tongue over Sam's puckered hole.  
  
"Arthur, fucking hell!" Sam shouted, his eyes snapping open. For all of the jokes about Arthur being a tight-ass—Eames had started most of them—Sam was the one who’d always been _really_ sensitive down there. The muscles clenched even tighter after the first stroke, but Sam didn't actively pull away, so Arthur dove back in. He rubbed his dick against Sam's leg a little, needing the relief as he patiently licked and sucked until he could push his tongue inside Sam, making sure to press down on the base of Sam's dick so this didn’t end too soon.  
  
Sam's thighs quaked around Arthur's shoulders while Arthur tongue-fucked him. Sam kept up a constant commentary of expletives interspersed with Arthur's name, his hands tearing into Arthur's Egyptian cotton sheets. Arthur didn't care. This was the kind of mindlessness that Sam needed: not withdrawing to oblivion but overloaded with sensation. Arthur tongued and stroked him up to the brink and backed off twice, until Sam's babble started making a little more sense. He was saying some very impolite things about Arthur's ancestry, but what mattered was he was here, he was in this moment, with Arthur, and it was _good_.  
  
"What the fucking fuck?" Sam panted when Arthur pulled away, but he shut up once Arthur's lips wrapped around his dick. Arthur took a few deep breaths through his nose, getting Sam's cock as sloppy wet with spit and pre-come as he could without letting him come. Sam let out a frustrated cry when Arthur's mouth abandoned his dick once again, and now Arthur did let himself grin at Sam. He moved quickly, pinning Sam down and straddling his waist, then pried one of Sam's hands loose from the sheets.  
  
Sam didn't catch on until Arthur pulled the hand up and started licking and sucking Sam's fingers. Understanding dawned in his eyes and he said, "Oh," and started slicking his other hand with his own mouth. Arthur released his hand and Sam wasted no time wriggling a finger into Arthur's ass while he wrapped the other hand around Arthur's dick. Arthur's groan became a gasp when Sam quickly pushed in another finger. Fuck, but he'd missed Sam's hands, Sam's long, nimble fingers that knew Arthur's body better than anyone else. Arthur slumped forward, tilting his hips up to give Sam better access and let Sam take over for a bit, make absolutely sure Sam was paying attention to this and not his own thoughts. Arthur started sucking a hickey onto Sam's shoulder just above his tattoo (and why did Arthur recognize that design)—  
  
The savage burn of Sam’s third finger stopped all rational thought. Arthur bit down on Sam's shoulder to muffle his whimper and Sam shuddered—no, he was chuckling. "My turn," he said, pausing to let Arthur adjust. The hand on Arthur's dick stopped and slid up his chest before it pushed Arthur's chin up into a kiss. That was good too, and it distracted Arthur from noticing that Sam's fingers were moving again, fucking him open. Arthur pushed off of Sam and stretched across the bed. He could _almost_ reach the nightstand—  
  
"Here," Sam said, pulling his fingers out all at once. Arthur yelped, overbalanced, and crashed into the mattress. Sam took the opportunity to roll on top of Arthur: a sweaty blanket with freakish gorilla arms that had no trouble opening the drawer and retrieving the lube and a condom, or lifting Arthur onto his hands and knees.  
  
Let the cunning bastard indulge his ridiculous control issues; Arthur stopped caring the second Sam shoved his slicked-up fingers back into him, the cold both shocking and soothing. "Yes," Arthur hissed, pushing back and fucking himself on Sam's fingers. Arthur was ready, now, for Sam's fingers to slide out, prepared for the blunt pressure of Sam's dick stretching him even wider. Arthur's memories hadn't done Sam justice; he'd forgotten about the little noises that Sam made every time one of his shallow thrusts pushed a little deeper than he'd expected.  
  
Sam bottomed out and grunted right into Arthur's ear, a sound that sent a primal shiver up and down Arthur's spine, and he couldn't help but clench down hard around Sam. They both cried out; Sam pulled back a little and somehow the motion transformed ache into need. The burn faded into the background, drowned out by the friction of Sam's shaft against Arthur's prostate. Arthur stopped trying to hold back his moans.  
  
It wasn't more than a dozen shallow thrusts before Sam had Arthur's hips in hand, the head of his cock pulling against Arthur's rim right before he fucked it all the way back in. No one and nothing could compare. Arthur lost any kind of control—all he could do was roll his hips into the thrust when Sam dragged him back onto his cock.  
  
Arthur tried reaching for his own dick, needing the release to keep up with how rough Sam was using him, but Sam batted his hand away. "No," he said, and Arthur could argue, would argue, but then Sam hooked an arm around his chest and hoisted them both upright, saying "Like this," and Arthur's only answer was a scream. Arthur squirmed and writhed against him but Sam's arm held him tight. "You wanted to ride me," Sam teased.  
  
"Fuck you," Arthur snarled, and he did, pulling on Sam's arm for the extra leverage he needed to fuck himself back on Sam's dick, use Sam as roughly as Sam had used him. He was so close, even without Sam touching him. All it took was Sam moaning in his ear and then biting down.  
  
"Told you," Sam panted out, and that didn't make any sense but Arthur didn’t care. Arthur let out everything, moaning the entire time, grinding his ass down on Sam's cock until his body lay limp on Sam's lap: filthy, covered with come and with nothing left to give.  
  
Sam's arm dropped and so did Arthur, crumpling forward and slipping to the side, his hand dragging across Sam’s sweat-covered chest. Breathing deeply, Arthur let himself lie limply against the mattress, blinking as Sam slid down to join him. Arthur noticed that Sam hadn't come, that he was stripping the condom off his still hard cock and tossing it the general direction of the waste basket. Sam’s face was blank again.  
  
Fuck that— Sam was not allowed to turn this into another way of punishing himself. Arthur pushed himself up on his elbow and scooted down along the bed until his face was even with Sam's dick, one hand drifting along Sam's torso down to his cock. Arthur wrapped his fingers around it with lazy but very intentional strokes. Sam’s eyes slipped closed and Arthur pushed against Sam’s hip, rolling him onto his back. He took a long breath, then leaned over and took as much of Sam's cock into his mouth as he could.  
  
Sam gasped, his hips twitching upward, but Arthur pushed them back down with a hand on Sam's stomach. He pulled back and sucked on just the head, swirling his tongue around it while he snaked his other hand down to cradle Sam's balls, rolling them slow and sure. Sam’s fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair. Arthur hummed and licked into the slit of his cock until he had Sam moaning and trembling beneath him. Sam had been so close already, and it didn’t take long before, with a final twist, Sam filled Arthur’s mouth in long, slow pulses. Arthur took it all, took Sam's groans and hitched breaths and every drop of him he could get, and he swallowed it all.  
  
After Sam’s tremors settled down, they gravitated back towards each other. Sam hadn't quite caught his breath yet. When he opened his eyes, Arthur could still read guilt and despair in eyes too wide and a brow too furrowed. But now they were tempered by the contented curl of his lips and the relaxed set of his jaw and neck. It was a start.  
  
Sam broke the silence with a soft laugh. "I think— maybe I needed that," he said.  
  
Arthur smirked. "I didn't notice," he said, pushing Sam's hair back, combing through it with his fingers. Sam's eyes slid shut and he pushed into the touch. Arthur almost said something, but then Sam let out a small sigh. Arthur kept up the stroking for a few more minutes, but Sam had always been a sucker for the afterglow. If he'd been as sleep deprived as Arthur suspected, Sam would be down for a minimum of three hours.  
  
Arthur would have stayed there all day, but if he wanted to pull Sam back from the brink— well, that meant he had to get moving. He pulled away carefully, checked his totem, resisted the urge to do a Snoopy dance when it came up real, then cleaned up with what had been his favorite sheet and covered Sam with the relatively unsoiled quilt. Arthur had some arrangements to make, some shady figures to bribe, and at least one contract to cancel. But if that was the cost of having a naked Sam asleep in his bed? Arthur would bring down the entire internet, give out markers to the Russians _and_ the Chinese, cancel every job he had set up for the next year, and still consider it a bargain.  
  
~*~  
  
Sure enough, a little before noon Arthur heard heavy footfalls padding down the hallway before the bathroom door swung shut. He set his computer aside and got up to cook lunch. Since he'd been shopping mostly for himself the night before, pretty much the only thing Arthur could cook that he would have enough to share was grilled cheese. It was also a quick meal, even more so because Sam hated tomato on his and preferred the cheapest American cheese possible, a guilty pleasure that he'd passed on to Arthur even as Mal threatened to throw them both out of the house. But it did melt well.  
  
Arthur timed it so he was cutting Sam's (triangles, _never_ rectangles) when he heard Sam walk into the kitchen. "There's a bag of chips in the pantry right next to you," he said as he picked up the plate and a napkin.  
  
When he turned around, Sam had frozen at the threshold. "Sam?" Arthur said, and that seemed to snap him out it. Arthur set his plate down on the table and returned to the range. "Not a lot of options when it comes to drinks, unless you feel like having a beer for lunch."  
  
Sam hurriedly picked up his grilled cheese when Arthur sat down across from him, as though Arthur wouldn’t notice the lack of bite marks. Arthur waited long enough for it to be obvious that Sam was avoiding eye contact before he said, "I didn’t forget the way you like them, you know, it hasn’t been that long."  
  
Sam gave something that might have passed for a laugh if Arthur hadn’t been looking at him. Arthur could actually _hear_ Sam’s stomach growl, but Sam put the sandwich back on his plate and reached for Arthur’s laptop, saying, “So have you found anything yet?”  
  
A weak attempt even by Sam’s standards. “No working until you’ve eaten something,” Arthur said, pretending he didn’t have a Mal-voice.  
  
"Do you, um, could I have something else?" Sam said, not looking up.  
  
About to point out that he’d never seen Sam meet a grilled cheese he didn’t like, Arthur managed to notice in time that Sam did look a little green around the gills. "There’s not much else," he said. “Unless you want that can of Spaghetti-o’s that seems to regenerate every time I throw it out.”  
  
Sam covered his eyes for a moment, his lips quirking from side to side and nostrils flaring. Arthur started counting to ten in his head, but then Sam finally looked up with a half-hearted smile. "I think maybe I should go back to bed."  
  
Arthur waited to see if Sam would offer an explanation, but all that happened was the smile slipping from Sam’s face and his eyes going even rounder. The kicked-puppy look might have been intentional, but it made Arthur feel like a prick anyway. “Sure,” he said, and Sam pushed away from the table without giving the sandwich another glance. Arthur set his elbows on the table and held his face in his hands for a minute or two, then pulled out his phone. He could call Mal. He should call Dom.  
  
He didn't. Instead, Arthur went back to his bedroom, realizing only as he opened the door that Sam might have gone back to the guest room. But there Sam was curled up on his bed, quilt pulled up above his shoulders, and Arthur ignored the tinge of possessiveness in the rush of relief. He sat down on the bed. "Do you want to talk about this?"  
  
Sam didn't turn his head or open his eyes. "Am I allowed to say no?"  
  
"For now."  
  
"Then no."  
  
Arthur sighed. "Is there— you really need to eat something, Sam." If Sam wanted to play dirty, Arthur would play dirty. "Do you really think not taking care of yourself is going to do Dean any good?"  
  
Sam flinched, turning his face into the pillow. "Just— can you get me a Gatorade or something? Crackers maybe. Just.. no grilled cheese, okay?" Sam mumbled half into the pillow.  
  
Arthur blinked. He'd expected more resistance. "Yeah, I can go pick something up. Anything else you can think of?"  
  
"No," came the immediate response. Arthur nodded and, just because he could, gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze before he turned to leave. Sam grabbed his hand, pulled it against his cheek, and gave it a quick kiss. "Arthur— it's not your fault, okay? Don't ever think it's your fault. There's just... this case has been messing with my head for awhile now," he said, squeezing Arthur's fingers.  
  
"And you don't want to talk about it," said Arthur.  
  
Sam shook his head, nuzzling Arthur's hand again. "Not— not now."  
  
Sam still hadn't let go of his hand. "All right," said Arthur, and he had a bad feeling and he didn't want to pull away, but Sam really _did_ need to eat something and he wasn't lying or fighting, just not ready to talk. Arthur could accept that. "Get some rest, I shouldn't be more than a few minutes," he told Sam, pulling his hand away but combing his fingers through Sam's hair one last time. Sam nodded and turned his face back into the pillow, and Arthur left. He tossed Sam's sandwich in the garbage and grabbed his own to eat on his way out.  
  
He should have known. Sam said he wanted to sleep? Arthur should have slipped him a little chemical assistance before he left. At the very least, he should have snatched Sam's keys. But he'd wanted to believe that Sam was okay; he'd wanted to believe that Sam finally really did trust him, with everything.  
  
When he returned home Sam, his duffel and files, and that _fucking car_ were all gone. The note on the kitchen table was brief— Sam had been in a hurry— but it got his point across.  
  
 _Arthur,  
I wanted to stay. I'm sorry.  
-Sam_  
  
Arthur sat at the table and crumpled it in his hand.


	3. Thursday's Child Has Far to Go

_Wednesday, March 5, 2008_

The entire world was made of pain and someone was laughing at Arthur. Arthur clutched his Glock, ready to raise it as he cracked one eye open. This was a mistake: there was light in the room, and it didn't just stab, it skewered his eyeball. The empty bottle of Cuervo falling out of his left hand and onto the floor probably explained that. But Arthur couldn't be in this much pain if he were still drunk, so he still lacked an explanation for the bearded redneck seizing his wrist and taking his gun away. "Don't point that piece of Tupperware at me, boy, there are young'ns about." Arthur had seen this man before and heard that voice before—but somehow not at the same time. Nothing in the world made sense any more. 

The old guy shook his head and sat down on Mal's divan, taking a drink from a flask he pulled out from his vest. "So you're Sam's 'friend', huh? Believe it or not, it's actually reassuring to meet you, poor arrogant bastard."

Sam. Sam had left. Again. Arthur hadn't been able to stand the emptiness of his own house so he'd gone to the Cobb's. Then there had been drinking, and more drinking, and... "Bobby?"

"Mr. Singer was already on his way to California when you called him last night, Arthur," said Mal as she walked in, carrying a tea tray and looking like an angel of mercy in yoga clothes. "Still, I did not expect him to arrive quite so soon."

She set down the tray and handed Bobby a cup of coffee to which he replied with lowered eyes and an even lower "Thank you, ma'am." 

Then she stepped over in front of Arthur and dropped a white tablet in his hand. "This first," she said, and he took it without question. It was an Altoid, not an aspirin, but considering his mouth's current ashtray flavor, he gave her an appreciative groan as he continued his struggle to get into any kind of upright position. Once he finally reached a stable incline, Mal offered him a glass of water and two more tablets, these ones almost certainly aspirin. Arthur swallowed it all gratefully while she laid the cool backs of her fingers against his forehead. "You'll live," Mal told him when he finished. "What's more, we have a guest, so _s'il te plaît_?" she said, gesturing expectantly.

She seemed to want him to scoot up so that she could share the couch with him, but Arthur was still taking a full stock of his own misery. Leaning further onto his right side to pull himself up on the arm of the couch made something stab into his leg; with a grunt, he lifted his hips so that he could pull his keys out of his pocket and toss them on the coffee table. Mal was still watching him; Arthur occupied himself with pulling his legs out from under himself and trying to present himself as something resembling a human being. Coffee helped.

Bobby made a show of not staring while Arthur tried to snap the cricks out of his neck, studying the bead on Arthur's key chain instead. Once Arthur had settled, he cleared his throat and said, "So, Arthur Mendelsohn or Dortmunder or Denton or Schwartzreich or Hammond, not only are you the world's authority on Project Lavoisier, but you're also the first and only person Sam's gone to for help since Dean died. Any ideas why?" 

"You mean, why didn't he go to you first, _Agent O'Connor_?" rasped Arthur. He took another sip of coffee; Mal must've let him smoke through an entire pack last night. "Can't say for sure. He said it was family business." Arthur coughed and cleared his throat, shaking his head. "It looked more like a psychotic break to me, but Sam's also spent our entire relationship making certain that I don't understand the family business."

Mal scowled at Arthur before flashing Bobby an apologetic smile. "Sam has always been rather guarded about his past with us. As we have long been about his past with others. Regardless of which secrets we keep for him, we do all care about him, very much."

"Caring about Winchesters will be the death of all of us one day, mark my word. It's something of a comfort to know Sam has other people out there." Bobby looked down. "If there's any— Sam won't even return my calls. I had to find out about Dean from the Broward County Coroner's office."

Arthur had a fleeting moment of déjà vu, but he chalked it up to the hangover. "I'm sorry. About Dean. But Sam— as bad as losing Dean is, it's got to be more than that. Last time I saw Sam was in January, after I spoke to you. Day before yesterday he showed up at my house looking at me like it had been _years_ , and not good years either." Arthur finished his coffee and pushed away the craving for one of the cigarettes Mal had likely hidden away already. "So, Bobby, you tell me: what else happened during February?"

Bobby shook his head. "Pittsburgh was the last time I saw the boys too. Dean—" And hell, his voice broke a little when he said it. "Dean called me the Saturday before he got shot. He and Sam, they'd been trying to track down this con-artist who'd stolen something... very valuable from them. The trail had gone cold, so Dean said they were going to check out a possible job down in Florida. He didn't think the case would pan out. Couldn't raise them for a week and a half, then the coroner called me up, tells me that as his listed next of kin, I needed to arrange for the disposal of Dean's remains." Bobby's face pinched; he opened and drank from his flask like he didn't notice he was doing it. "It's like I've lost them both." Bobby stared at the table for a long minute, then shook himself, offering Arthur the flask. "Sam— how was he?"

Arthur ignored Mal's glare and took a sip, savoring the burn of surprisingly well-aged single malt Scotch. Apparently, Bobby Singer had priorities. "Robotic at best," he said. "The couple of times he let himself get anywhere close to emotional, he started acting like a sulky kid until he caught himself. I made him a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and then he bolted the first chance he got."

Mal rubbed Arthur's shoulder. "I didn't get the chance to see him, but with Sam and his issues since childhood... it's always been a fine line between nervous breakdown and psychotic break. We're leaning towards psychotic break this time."

Bobby's lips quirked to the side. "Let me guess: thick slab of government cheese melted on split-top wheat, cut diagonally?"

Arthur blinked. "Yes."

"Can't tell you how many hundreds of times I've seen Dean make Sam that sandwich since they were both little boys." He let out another bitter laugh. "Grief ain't a psychotic break, but Winchesters will try to make it look like one, what with all their dramatic gestures."

Mal pursed her lips together. "Still, I think we can safely say that Sam is pursuing some reckless path of revenge. He... his dramatic gestures, as you say, may progress into deliberate acts of self-harm."

"He’s a Winchester." Bobby shrugged. "No disrespect intended towards your diagnosis, Dr. Cobb. But if we want to find the boy and stop him, I need to know what he's tracking. I may have been able to pick up the trail from Florida to California, but if you hadn't called when you did, I'd be in Palo Alto this morning, not Los Angeles." He picked up the coffee cup again, giving Arthur's keys yet another glance before looking up at him. "Just— what exactly did he ask you to do? Don't matter how little sense you think it makes."

Arthur rolled his eyes and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. "Sam wanted me to do a highly intrusive global search and data mining project, searching for, quote, 'ironic deaths'." Arthur closed his eyelids so he could massage his still-aching eyes. "Never gave me any real definition of what that meant, and half of the deaths in his files— they were unlikely, but still, the deaths resulted from apparently natural causes."

He heard Mal lean forward on the couch. "Mr. Singer, you know who he's looking for." 

Arthur's eyes shot open to see Bobby avoiding eye contact and once again fiddling with Arthur's keys. "Well, ma'am, yes, I expect I do. Trouble is— do you know what this is?" he asked Arthur, pointing at the charm.

"It's from Sam's— I mean, Sam gave it to me back in Pittsburgh. Called it a," and Arthur paused here, pretending he didn't replay every conversation he ever had with Sam over and over in his mind, "— said it was a little piece of his world, to keep me safe from the crazy. Looks like it didn't work." And what did it have to do with _anything_?

Bobby let out another bitter laugh. "Idiot should've told you they work better if you wear 'em." Then a brief look of horror flashed over Bobby's face; he didn't quite manage to hide it by drinking his coffee. "See, Sam isn't just hunting something, he's also _being_ hunted by a totally different something. And that thing—well, better safe than not," he said, finishing the cup. "Dr. Cobb, could you please call your daughter in for a moment?" Bobby asked, tucking Arthur's Glock behind his back, out of sight.

Mal frowned but nodded and walked to the dining room, where she could see Dom and the kids outside the patio doors, Phillipa blowing bubbles while Dom cradled a smiling but still pale James. "Phillipa? Could you come inside for a moment, _s'il te plaît_?" 

As she followed her daughter back into the living room, Mal continued to eye Bobby suspiciously, but the old coot transformed as soon as the child came into the room. A warm smile appeared on his face and his posture shifted from jaded barfly to beloved children's television host. "Hello again, Miss Phillipa. Tell, me, when's your birthday?"

"Next month!" Phillipa announced proudly. "I'm gonna be..." She paused, trying to remember, and gave her Uncle Arthur a pleading look. 

Arthur tried to imitate Bobby and straighten up, managing to say, "Pippa's going to be three years old." Phillipa beamed at him, and okay, life wasn't quite so terrible as he'd been thinking.

Bobby nodded. "Well, I have a very special present for a pretty little girl who's about to turn three. I don't know if I'll be able to come around for your birthday, so is it okay if I give it to you right now?" Phillipa didn't even bother to glance back at her mother for permission before skipping over to Bobby, who had pulled what appeared to be a necklace out of his pocket, dangling it in front of her. "This is a magic wishing charm. Can you turn around and hold your hair up so I can put it on, please?" Pippa turned around to let Bobby tie the leather thong around her neck, and Arthur saw a charm identical to his bead—the same design as Sam's tattoo. 

Bobby straightened Phillipa’s shirt, smiling at her. "Now, you just make a wish and always keep this necklace on. If you can keep it on for a whole year, right up until you turn four, then your wish will come true."

"Really?"

"Well, so long as you don't wish for a pet unicorn, princess. Now, you go on with your pa, little one, and look out for your brother."

Pippa's nose wrinkled. "James is too sick and little to play with any good."

"Maybe now, but give him a couple months, I reckon you'll hardly be able to keep up with him."

Phillipa wrinkled her nose. "Sure," she said, heading out the door. 

Mal stopped her with a hand. "What do we say to Mr. Singer?"

" _Merci, monsieur_ ," Phillipa sighed.

"You're welcome, little one." Bobby's face remained soft as he watched Phillipa go. Then he turned to Mal. "Willing to bet you'd have to wrestle her to get that off her neck now, but all the same, make sure that stays on day and night."

Mal's lips thinned, her eyes narrowing. "Will you explain to me why?"

"The design's the same as Sam's tattoo," said Arthur, brain still firing a half-second slow. 

Bobby nodded slowly. "Yes, well, the boys—err, Sam, he needed something a little more durable. I'll make up some for you, Dr. Cobb, and your son and your husband just as soon as I can. But let's all show our cards at the same time, shall we?" He took a drink from a different flask, then handed it to Mal. "Indulge an old man's whimsy and take a sip of that please, ma'am." 

Mal did so, then frowned as she swallowed. "It's just water." She stuck out her tongue and reached for her coffee.

"Arthur, if you could take a drink too." Arthur opened his mouth to protest and Bobby cut him off. "It'll do your head some good, especially if I don't have to beat you over the head with it when you try to refuse."

Arthur scowled and tipped the flask back. The water tasted more than a little stale and vaguely salty. "What's this all about?"

"Precautions," said Bobby. "Sam had good reason to try to keep you folks out of this whole mess. What we do... well, this ain't a life he chose, but for whatever reason he always winds up stuck back in the middle of it." Bobby paused briefly and then said, "It’s not his fault, but so far as I'm concerned Sam's lost any right he had to keep secrets from any of us." He looked up at them, his face frank and open. "Thing of it is, if I _do_ tell you, I can't _un_ -tell you, understand?" Bobby's gaze met Arthur's with some additional weight of meaning.

Arthur leaned forward. "Then Sam should've thought of that before he left the reservation."

Bobby nodded grimly and looked at Mal. "And you, ma'am?"

"Even if you hadn't as much told me my own family could be in danger,” she said, “Sam is also family."

Bobby broke into a single, bitter laugh. "Ain't that the truth? Well, now that we're all on about the same level, I'm going to say that I got closer to the truth of Project Lavoisier than most other folks when I gave you a call, Arthur? Tell me, how deep into it was our Sam?"

Mal and Arthur exchanged looks. "He was... involved," said Mal.

"So right in the middle of it." Neither Arthur nor Mal changed their expressions and Bobby sighed. "Like I said, boy's got a talent. Now, if what my research told me was correct— up until I ran up into you." Bobby shook his head at Arthur, but with some admiration in his expression. "Then one or the both of you has access to a device that would, ah, let me illustrate my side of the problem for you in very clear, believable terms?"

Arthur blinked. "You're not wrong."

Bobby slapped his hands against his thighs. "Well, break it out, because it's about damn time someone else knew what keeps me up at nights."

_Thursday, August 14, 2008_

Five months later and the closest Arthur had gotten to Sam was last month, a vampire nest in Austin that Sam cleared out. Arthur was three days too late.

Bobby’d had a good laugh when Arthur had asked him whether the vampire infestation was related to the huge colony of bats in the city. "You've got a lot to learn, kid, but you'll get there." On the other end, Arthur heard Bobby flipping through an address book. "Haven't heard about any other jobs in the area, but there's an arms dealer that John used to be friendly with just outside of Marfa. Sam ought to be running low on ammo by now." 

As it turned out, Sam had gone east instead, taking care of a load of ghouls in Louisiana, and had rearmed not through any arms dealer but by breaking into the Louisiana Army Ammunition Plant. It took Arthur a week to plant enough false leads to keep those incompetent hacks at the FBI from blundering into Sam first. But even given the delay, and the fact that the whole stunt made it clear that Sam had stopped caring about his personal safety at all—Arthur had to give him points for sheer ballsiness.

And Arthur's trip to Marfa hadn't been a total loss: Vito No-Last-Name-Given had somehow procured an FN-SCAR-L and been willing to part with it for a mere six grand. Arthur had been wanting to try one out for ages. Not only was it an improvement on the M-16, but it also shot silver bullets with nearly the same accuracy and penetration as a NATO round. 

Now Arthur was driving somewhere in Tennessee and losing ground. Arthur's phone chirped and he pulled it out of the center console. Mal texted, _Blue coyote in AZ was rabid not Loki. no sign of Sam_. Mal and Dom had meant to spend the summer investigating the potential risks and opportunities of building dreams within dreams, but instead Mal and Arthur had been criss-crossing the country looking for Sam while Dom watched the kids. Arthur shook his head: that coyote had sounded like a good lead, especially after that one anti-immigration sheriff had been mistaken for a border crosser by his own Minutemen and shot dead. They'd even had Bobby pass it along to Sam's voice mail, running the risk that he would see it as the trap it was — though Sam wouldn’t know that Mal and Arthur were working with Bobby.

The phone chirped again, softer this time. Eames. That made ten already this week. Arthur had been forced to put a password on his voicemail for people to _leave_ messages, after both Mal and Bobby had been bounced out because his box was full of messages from Eames. But for once, just because the phone was already open, Arthur looked without deleting. _i know youre alive. found you on CCTV at the atm last week + nobody else is that surly arthur I can help._

Arthur stared at the screen far longer than was legal or safe while driving. He could always—

No. If Arthur was considering calling Eames back, it meant his exhaustion had hit the level when he needed pull over for the night. Arthur finally understood Sam's low standards when it came to sanitary conditions in American hotels, but he was coming up on a decent-sized town called Clarksville and he could probably find a respectable chain, at least. All Arthur needed was a place to shower, sleep, and leave again in eight hours. 

Those eight hours were cut down to five when the room phone rang at seven that morning. Arthur was already snarling by the time he had the receiver against his ear. "I didn't ask for a wake-up call.”

"I know Lavoisier didn’t pick you for your morning-after cuddles, but my goodness, someone is cranky," came an unfamiliar male voice. It might as well have been a bucket of ice-water. 

"Sam Winchester is a hard man to find, isn’t he, Arthur?” the voice said. Arthur sat up. “Oh, but I don’t want to be rude—would you prefer I call you Sergeant Lan—"

"Who the fuck are you?" Arthur shouted, cutting him off. He jumped out of bed and started searching the room for bugs. This man knew Arthur's room number. He knew Sam's full name, and the codename Arthur had been protecting for seven years—more than that, he knew _Arthur's_ real name. Arthur hadn’t heard his own name from anyone except his mother in years. No one in the world knew all four of those things. Whoever this guy was—government, dreamshare, hunter— this was someone to be reckoned with.

“Relax, hotshot,” said the voice. "Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Forgive me if I’m not inclined to believe you,” Arthur snapped. “Now what the hell do you want?”

“I've always liked you, Arthur, and you're very good at your job. So sit down and get a piece of paper."

Arthur grabbed the complimentary pad of paper beside his bed. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to tell you exactly when and where you're going to find Sam Winchester."

Arthur gripped the pen tighter. "You some kind of psychic?" After Pamela Barnes had hit a dead end, Arthur had mostly given up on psychics—she’d grabbed Arthur's ass and been horribly disappointed to find out his sexual preferences, though at least they'd been able to bond over mutual love of the Ramones. But Sam was _good_. Not even Bela Talbot, when Arthur'd tracked _her_ down (the antique Colt now safely ensconced in one of Arthur's private safehouses), had been able to locate him.

The smug asshole on the other side started laughing again. "Oh, Arthur, you're even more adorable when you first wake up." His voice turned less playful. "If you’d had your morning coffee, you’d know exactly who I am."

Arthur wished he had that coffee to swallow around. "The Trickster."

"There's the best point man in the business," he said, and it sounded he was praising a small child. Did he really think Arthur would appreciate the condescension, or was he antagonizing Arthur on purpose? If finding Sam was playing into the Trickster’s game, maybe Arthur should stay out of it, wait for another chance.

"Sam's finally tracked me down,” the Trickster said. “Now, before you start getting your panties in a knot, you should know: I'm not going to hurt him. I'm trying to _help_ him." And now he sounded like an exasperated parent. "I'm on your side, kiddo. Which is why you need to get your scrawny butt down to the Broward County Mystery Spot at exactly 9:15 pm tonight." He gave Arthur the exact address, exit number, and street directions for when Arthur got off the highway. Then he added, "Don't take too long in the shower, and eat one of those gas station hotdogs for lunch. You should make it right on time."

If not now, when? Arthur had been missing Sam on every job he worked for months. This might be the best chance he’d get at making Sam see sense, even if the Trickster’s intentions did end up being more malicious than he claimed. Arthur wished again for a stake that would get the job done and checked his watch. "That’s cutting it pretty close, considering I hit Atlanta at rush hour."

The Trickster laughed. "Today, Arthur, you don't have to worry about luck." He could hear the smirk on the other end of the line. "See you tonight."

~*~

The Trickster proved to be a demi-god of his word, at least as far as directions were concerned. Arthur parked next to Sam’s ridiculous car in the Mystery Spot parking lot at 9:12 pm. He paused for a moment, resting his head against the top of the steering wheel. Then he sat up, shrugged the wrinkles out of his jacket, and checked to make sure his Glock had a full magazine. It wouldn’t do much good against the Trickster, if the lore was to be believed. Then again he had led him to directly to Sam so maybe Arthur could give him the benefit of the doubt. Arthur considered it for a moment then chambered a round before pointing it at the ground and slipping through the unlocked back door, as per the Trickster's instructions.

The Mystery Spot was shoddy showmanship and cheap superstitious pandering combined into one tacky oversaturated hellhole. From the day-glo hallway, Arthur could hear voices from deep inside, but it was difficult to track the source with all the narrow halls and thin walls. It didn't help that a couple of the props — the tables on the ceiling, the clocks running backward — reminded him too much of dreamshare before Sam came along, when the rules of physics really didn’t have meaning. Some of the things that Arthur had seen in peoples' heads... the old soft places didn't always come with a warning, but the moment a dream started to resemble a Salvador Dali painting, you knew one was near. Better to shoot out than risk Limbo.

Arthur paused and pulled out his totem. He'd rolled it plenty of times today, but just seeing the pips and reassuring himself of its proper imbalance was enough for now. He let out a soft sigh, tucked his totem away, and moved his finger back on the trigger guard before continuing onwards.

Finally he came to a corner where the murmurs became coherent. He could hear Sam sniffling, but nothing sounded immediately threatening—the voice from the phone, the Trickster, actually sounded like he was considering giving in to the puppy dog eyes, just like the rest of the world. "... don't know. Even if I could—"

Sam jumped on the words desperately. "You can!" he said, and Arthur could hear the quaver in his voice.

The Trickster shot back with a "True," that sounded as firm and confident as Cobb. The tone shifted again after a brief pause, to that consoling, patient voice he'd used on the phone. "But that don't mean I should."

Sam replied with nothing but hitched breaths. Arthur tested the boards ahead of him and dared to creep forward to get a better view, using a few random seahorse sculptures to keep himself concealed. The new position revealed a sight far more disturbing and unnatural than any of the lame props. 

The Sam Winchester Arthur knew charmed his way through situations. He was always ready with a quick retort, or a distraction so subtle that you didn’t realize he hadn’t answered your question until halfway through the next conversation. He cajoled, he used those damn eyes, he nagged, and if necessary, he wasn't above resorting to threats. Sam Winchester did not beg. But there he stood, shoulders and jaw quivering as his throat worked to keep the sobs down, staring down at a... short guy wearing a shirt straight out of Eames' wardrobe.

"Sam, there's a lesson here that I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours," said the Trickster. Arthur's brief disappointment at the demi-god's unimpressive appearance fell away when Sam didn't try to contradict the comment — or complain about the insult.

"Lesson? What lesson?" asked Sam, sounding lost and confused. His shoulders kept shaking, his neck flexing, and Arthur was a split second from revealing himself to protect his Sam from this inhuman bastard, but the Trickster's reply stopped him in his tracks..

"This obsession to save Dean? The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other?” For the first time there was no hint of a smile in the Trickster’s manner. “Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood. And pain." 

Arthur drew back a little, unsure. He’d pick Sam over any god that stood in his way, but the Trickster wasn’t entirely wrong. Wasn’t Sam’s inability to leave Dean the whole reason he was in this mess?

"Dean's your weakness,” the Trickster said, and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to disagree. “The bad guys know it too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam.” 

And that—that sounded entirely too much like a god stating a fact. How much did this Trickster god know? There had to be a way to stop it, whatever was coming for Sam. Maybe, if Sam could just hear the truth in the Trickster’s words, that would be enough to shake him free of this path.

"Sometimes you just gotta let people go," the Trickster finished, turning away, and Arthur allowed himself the hope that that would be the end of it.

But Sam stood his ground: one last, senseless plea. "He's my brother."

The Trickster tossed the stake into his other hand and caught Arthur's eye just as he said, "Yup." He flashed Arthur a small smile before turning back to Sam. "And like it or not, this is what life's gonna be like without him."

"Please—" Sam began, on the verge of tears, but the Trickster held up a hand.

"There's more to life than brothers, Sam. Turn around.” 

Arthur took a short step into the light, and Sam’s overbright eyes found his.

The Trickster beckoned Arthur. "Don't get all stabby again, Sam, because this is the genuine article.” Arthur stepped forward, and Sam stared, eyes wide and lower lip trembling. He looked almost like he might bolt for the closest exit, and Arthur's greeting froze in his throat. He couldn't stand this, couldn't stand the idea that Sam's first instinct was to run from him now. 

"And why should I believe that?” Sam turned away from Arthur. “Ten minutes ago you were Bobby. Six months ago you sold radio ads. You’re trying to distract me, okay, and I can't —"

“I’m not a projection,” Arthur broke in. “This asshole woke me up at the crack of dawn and made me drive all the way down here but I only came because I wasn’t sure how else to find you.” Couldn’t Sam tell the difference between an illusion and the real Arthur?

“Arthur's been tracking you for five months,” the Trickster said, and Sam looked from one to the other, frowning. The Trickster sauntered closer. “The kind of thing you’d notice if you didn’t have your revenge blinders on, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sam said, looking so lost and afraid that Arthur moved toward him instinctively. 

“Sam.”

“Arthur?” Sam’s eyes skittered around Arthur’s face.

Arthur tried a smile. “Bobby kind of...told us what you do. Mal and I. And he gave all the Cobbs those little beads like the one I have so they’re safe, more or less. We’ve been trying to find you, Sam.” Sam looked back to the Trickster, and Arthur added quickly, “Check your totem. It’s me, I promise.”

“He came for you, Sam,” said the Trickster. “All by himself. He always would’ve followed you if you asked. If I didn’t know the word gave you crazy kids hives, I’d call it love.”

Very deliberately not thinking about that last bit, Arthur pivoted to face the Trickster, raised his Glock, and put two bullets in the chest and one in the forehead. The body slumped and disappeared before it hit the floor.

Sam coughed. "Mozambique drill’s not gonna work on a Trickster."

"Bobby said as much," said Arthur, shrugging and holstering the gun. He turned back to look at Sam and smiled. "But you know how I hate people who wake me up."

Sam laughed weakly, not quite able to meet Arthur's gaze. "He'll be back soon. He's not — he's never done." He swallowed roughly.

“So how were you planning to stop him?” Arthur asked.

"He killed Dean," Sam said, his voice eerily quiet and even. "Over...and over again. And he thought it was fun." Sam’s voice cracked as he finally looked Arthur in the eye. "And now it's been six months and he won't give him back."

“It’s gonna be okay, Sam,” Arthur said, and split-second later he had to brace himself as Sam's full weight leaned into his chest and Sam's knees buckled.

Arthur was strong, but even he couldn't keep all of Sam Winchester standing alone. He managed to drop them both to their knees without letting go, rubbing circles on Sam's back and moving his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sam's neck. Sam was trying to say something, face buried in Arthur’s collar, but Arthur couldn’t understand him between the sobs and hiccups. For his own part, there wasn’t anything that words would convey better than the tightening of his grip around Sam’s shoulders.

With a rustling sound, the Trickster reappeared. He didn’t say anything, just pulled a chair off the ceiling and settled in to stare at them with a look on his face that Arthur couldn't quite place: something between triumph and envy. Arthur glared back, bringing one hand to the back of Sam’s head as though to shield him; Sam’s fingers twisted like claws into the fabric of Arthur's shirt.

After another minute or so, the sobs finally began to subside. Arthur could feel the instant when Sam finished fully processing their conversation. His fingers released Arthur's sides, his spine went stiff, and Arthur let him do it, let Sam pull away. Arthur had had five months to adjust to knowing Sam's secrets; Sam was only now realizing that his carefully-protected façade had been shattered.

"Hi," Arthur said. Sam gave a watery, hysterical laugh, and Arthur resisted the impulse to hug him again. “Look, these past few months—I just want to say that I get it, okay? I understand why you never—I understand a whole lot." 

Sam tried to wipe the snot from his nose, but he still looked like he was about to throw up, and Arthur couldn't stand it. Arthur offered Sam his pocket square and tried to phrase his next statement correctly.

"The whole time I've just—“ Arthur had to take a deep breath and lean back again, watching Sam clean himself up a bit. "I just wanted to know if you meant it."

Sam pushed his hair out of his face, still sniffling. "If I meant what?" he asked, his eyebrows knitted together.

And so what if he didn't remember the note Arthur still kept in his glovebox? He’d still written it. Arthur could quote it back for him if he liked—eight words weren’t hard to memorize. Arthur glared at the Trickster again, but the Trickster seemed deeply involved in consuming a lollipop and wasn’t looking at them. That would have to be close enough to privacy. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the words out. “When you said you—wanted to stay."

Arthur hadn’t thought it possible for Sam to look more miserable. “Arthur,” he began.

"I can deal with this, Sam,” Arthur said, and his voice was steady, calm. “I’ve been dealing with this for the last five months." He smiled a little. "Learned how to bless my own holy water and everything. Mom's gonna have a fit if she ever finds the crucifix." 

Even spooked and anguished, Sam had to laugh at jokes about Arthur's mom. That let Arthur say the last bit, the part he'd been rehearsing in his head over and over for five months. “So can you please just come back?”

Sam flinched, but the time for hiding was over. Arthur continued, “You always said if things had been different that we could’ve worked something out, and things _are_ different now. Right? I found out and I’m okay. It’s okay, Sam.” Sam still wasn’t looking at him. “I want you to come back,” Arthur said, and it was probably the most difficult sentence that had ever come out of his mouth. “Or I'll go with you. I don't care. I just want you. I want you to stay with me. ”

Silence, save for sniffles.

And Sam was still looking at the floor, and Arthur looked down too, because he needed to know if the ground was dropping out from underneath him or if it just felt that way. Then Sam whispered, "I did—I do want to."

“Then what’s the problem?” Both Sam and Arthur twisted around to look at the Trickster, who'd stood up and come closer without either of them realizing. Arthur suppressed the urge to shoot him again. Sam scrambled to his feet, and Arthur followed suit.

"You can have this, Sam,” the Trickster said, pointing at Arthur. "This? Is something healthy. This road doesn't lead to the _Apocalypse._.”

“You shouldn’t have brought him.” Sam’s jaw clenched, and he was back to not looking at Arthur. “He’s not part of this, he shouldn’t even know about it, this isn’t—“ He choked a little, throat closing.

The Trickster looked up at Sam, and he looked…tired. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall.” He sighed, and walked a few steps away before turning back to Sam with a flourish. ”Fine. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices here, Sam. I give you what you want, and it’ll be Wednesday again, this time without the nut job in the parking lot. And you’ll have three more months. And then Dean’s deal will be up. And you’ll have to do all this again.”

“What deal?” Arthur asked, but they ignored him.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Sam said, emphasizing his words through the nasal stuffiness his tears had given him. “We could still find a way to get him out of it.”

"I _do_ know that, Sam. You've watched me tie time in knots like a sailor: you think I can't see the future?" The Trickster jerked his chin at Arthur. “There are other people in the world besides Dean. People who care about you.”

Arthur wanted to be wary of someone who could see that so plainly. This asshole had just witnessed Arthur confessing things to Sam that he usually didn’t even let himself think about. But he couldn’t worry about how the Trickster might use this against him when he was so busy watching every unhappy line of Sam’s face.

“He found out your big secret and he’s still here,” said the Trickster. “Go hunting together. Or go back to that dreamsharing business, if it makes you feel better. Hell, I’ll even throw in a bonus—those demons you’ve been after? Lilith, all her henchmen, that Ruby chick? I can keep them off your tail for good.” The Trickster moved toward Sam again, watching the way Sam’s mouth shook. He sighed. “That’s my counteroffer, Sam. Wake up tomorrow as safe as you’ll ever be, with a damn good shot at a long and reasonably happy life.” He moved until Sam made eye contact and said, ”Stop looking for things you’re not gonna find, Sam, and look at what's right in front of you. You have another choice here.”

Sam choked on another sob, but Arthur didn’t move, could barely keep his breathing steady as he waited for Sam to choose.

“I need—” Sam said, nose dripping and tears on his cheeks, “to go back—to Wednesday.”

Wednesday. Dean. And nothing Arthur had done for the past five months would matter.

Arthur had taken bullets that felt better than this, the sick twisting in his gut saying _he didn’t choose you. He never chooses you. He never will._ Even when Sam left Stanford, Arthur had held onto some hope that he’d come back, if not to dreamshare then at least to their little circle, to him. He’d been hoping that much longer than he wanted to think about. They just worked together, him and Sam, and Arthur was more than ready to follow Sam into his life if Sam wouldn’t come back to his. Sam said he still wanted this, dammit, so why wasn’t he willing to try, why was Arthur never going to be good enough to keep him?

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, and for all Arthur’s control he couldn’t stop a tear from rolling down his face.

“ _Winchesters,_ ” the Trickster snarled. “Why can’t you let each other _go?_ ”

Almost voiceless now, but loud enough to Arthur when he couldn’t let himself breathe without sobbing, Sam said, “He’s my brother.”

"And what am I?"

"Arthur—" Sam began, but the Trickster cut him off.

“You know what? Fine. This all stopped being fun months ago. And maybe you’ll remember this in three months when Arthur’s gone and Dean’s still dead.” The Trickster stalked away to the center of the room, looking somehow taller. Sam gave a shuddering gasp, his face blotchy red again, but didn’t say anything else.

The Trickster paused, though, and looked fully at Arthur for the first time. Arthur reached for his handkerchief, found it still missing, and tried to surreptitiously wipe his eyes on his sleeve.

“If it’s any consolation,” he told Arthur, “you aren’t going to remember any of this. You won’t even be thinking of him, I’ll make sure of it.”

Arthur looked at Sam and tried to imagine ever not thinking about him. “It’s not.”

The Trickster nodded and held up one hand. “I wish he had picked you,” he said, almost to himself.

Arthur thought, _so do I_.

The Trickster snapped his fingers.

_Thursday, February 14, 2008_

Arthur raised his shoulders and rolled his head around, trying to get the cricks out of his neck. The mark hadn't emerged from his _hacienda_ during this entire eight hour shift, and Eames was late to take over. This particular hole in the wall was _actually a hole in the wall_ , a little niche in the hillside where Arthur could lie and wait outside of any sniper's line of sight and get some idea of the mark's routine. The grass made it softer than Afghanistan, but the bugs made it much itchier. 

Finally his phone vibrated in his pocket and Arthur grabbed it, keeping his voice low and reminding himself that no matter what, he couldn't scream at Eames for whatever excuse he was about to give. "Yes?"

"I'm coming to take over, don't shoot," said Stella, hanging up immediately. Arthur frowned—it was definitely Eames' shift, he'd taken over for Stella at noon. Nonetheless, he started packing up, and by the time Stella crept over the ridge, he had the station set up just the way she liked it. "Where's Eames?" he whispered.

Stella shrugged, pushing him out of the way so she could get into position. "Said he'd found an anomaly in the background research, wanted to talk to you about it at the office. Sounded serious. I told him he'd do double shifts tomorrow."

Arthur's eyes narrowed; that was just vague enough that Eames could have something entirely different in mind. Then again, the mark _had_ been behaving oddly— it was also entirely possible that Eames' evil mind had realized some evil illogical possibility that would never occur to Arthur. "Okay. Thanks."

Stella gave him the double pat on the shoulder that was her version of a full-hug. "Don't worry about it, just get out of here. You're noisy."

He crawled off, smiling. Working with Stella made things easy: she and Arthur came from similar backgrounds, even though hers was Belgian Jewish military, and they tended to think very much alike. It made dealing with Eames and Ivan and their mercurial ‘creativity’ much more tolerable. Stella stuck with things that worked, and it was her superior ability to infiltrate that made her an extractor rather than a point woman. He'd never once blown a job with her on lead, unlike other extractors he could think of; Mal's and Dom's experimental jobs tended to be much more exciting, but he kept getting shot during them— and not always in dreamspace.

By the time he’d reached the truck to drive back to the office, Arthur had run through his mental file on the mark and figured it had to be something about the step-daughter. Eames understood psychology and family dynamics far better than Arthur ever could, so there was the possibility that a freshly uncovered secret on that front might make the job much simpler—and require Arthur and Victor to completely redesign the dream. 

Really, everything was going fine until his phone rang again and he picked up without looking. "I'm almost there," he said, expecting Eames' usual impatience when he'd had a breakthrough.

Instead, Sam Winchester hummed wordlessly. "Uh, okay. Is this a bad time?"

Arthur kept his eyes on the road. It was eight pm on Valentine's Day and Arthur was on the phone with Sam Winchester, who most likely was a thousand miles away, doing whatever it was that he never wanted to talk about. "There could be worse, but make it quick."

"Okay," said Sam, before taking a long pause. Arthur dodged a trench in the road and gave the phone a look, to see if there was still a connection. "I've just been, you know, thinking about things."

Actually, given the tone of Sam's voice, there would never be a good time for this conversation. But Arthur kept his tone light. "Important things, I hope?"

"Yes," came Sam's immediate reply. "I—Look, you remember Pittsburgh?"

“Uh,” said Arthur.

“Because I guess, seeing you again, that you were willing to show up, uh.” Sam cleared his throat. "I guess I hadn't realized how much I missed you."

Sam paused again; Arthur pulled over into the undergrowth and killed the engine. "Sam, what's going on?" It had already been a _long_ day— Arthur itched in places he didn't want to think about— and Sam's voice sounded too tense, too nervous, too much like the worst was yet to come. And that little spark of... no, Arthur wouldn't let himself think that.

Sam sighed. "Arthur, I love you."

Fuck.

"And I want you to be happy. And it looks like you're— I mean, you were stressed, but you looked good last month." Because this was Sam Winchester, he would never have considered that part of the reason Arthur looked good was because he'd been there to see Sam. But Arthur didn't have anything to say back, because he might not be quite as intuitive at social interactions as Eames but he wasn't a moron.

"You looked happy," said Sam. "And... I want that for you, okay? Just not. Not with me."

Arthur checked his watch again to confirm: Sam had indeed chosen to have this conversation on Valentine's Day. "You do know we're not dating?" he said roughly, cutting off something about how Sam took Arthur for granted—which was damn fucking straight, but Arthur didn't mind, because Arthur never minded doing something for Sam because... because...

"No, we're not," replied Sam, and Arthur could hear just a little hitch in Sam's voice. "But that's... that's good. Because I really do love you, Arthur. I just... I think we should stop pretending that I'll ever be able to make you happy."

Arthur squeezed the bridge of his nose. "May I ask what led to this epiphany?" He wanted to hang up, he did, but this was Sam and he couldn't quite make himself pull the phone away before Sam answered.

"I'm fucking this up,” Sam said, and his exhale came as a rush of static. “What else is new, right?” Arthur frowned, but Sam was still speaking. “I just—needed you to know, I guess. And you— you can always call me if you need help, or if I forget to send James and Phillipa their birthday cards, or if you just need to scream at someone, because I deserve it, I really do."

Arthur straightened his back; he hadn't expected that much of an overcorrection. "Sam, are you okay?" he asked, soft and gentle as he only ever could manage with Sam.

“Yeah.” Sam sniffled again. "Trust me, worrying about me will just make you miserable. I know you'll still—check up on me, and all, and if the FBI ever grabs me I know who's bailing me out. But you should just—find someone better for you, all right?"

"This isn't making me worry about you any less," said Arthur after a moment's pause.

“Nobody’s dying anytime soon,” Sam said, oddly emphatic. “But it's not fair to you to keep doing...this."

Arthur sighed and knuckled his forehead with his free hand. "What about to you?"

"Told you: don't worry about me." Sam's voice had gone uncharacteristically calm—not detached, not resigned, but somehow serene. "And give Mal a hug next time you see her?"

Arthur's eyes went wide. "Sam—"

"I’ll update the Oblivion File if anything goes really wrong,” Sam said. “Until then, I've made my bed and I'm gonna sleep in it." He let out one bitter laugh. "It's just not a bed you really want to join me in."

Fuck, Arthur was tired, and he was especially tired of fighting with Sam. He never won anyway. "Okay. You say so."

"Good," said Sam, sounding relieved; Arthur envied him. "Good. Okay. Go get some sleep or something, okay? And just—thanks."

Arthur started to say, "Goodbye," but the line clicked shut before he could get it out.

About ten minutes later, Arthur pulled into the office courtyard, planning to tell Eames that whatever it was could wait. Yes, it was barely half past nine, but Arthur needed... Arthur needed some rest. Some normal sleep. And possibly a couple of shots of José Cuervo's Extra-Añejo Reserve, which he just happened to have on hand at his hotel room.

But before Arthur could even kill the engine, Eames opened the passenger door and hopped into the truck with him. "Your couch is comfier _and_ you sprang for the beachside room, so we're definitely doing this at your place," Eames said, like that explained anything.

"What?" said Arthur, totally lost. Eames was holding a couple of paper bags that he set in the footwell, their contents an utter mystery.

Eames smiled and turned on a dim flashlight on his keychain, flashing it at Arthur's face. "As expected," he said, turning it off and stuffing it back in his pocket. Arthur kept staring at him blankly and Eames sighed. "Four years I've known you, and as surly as you are generally, you're the most miserable bastard on the planet come Valentine's." Somehow Eames had Arthur's phone in his hand. "Mmm. Ten minutes. Just get a call from the usual suspect?"

Arthur was _this_ close to shooting him in the head, damn the consequences, but then the expression on Eames' face softened. "You don't have to answer, you know. I just figured— don't get that look on your face. If I ever decide I'm set on sweetly romancing you, I'll do a far better job of it than this." Eames winked at him. "But I figured that an Alfred Hitchcock marathon, some mole, and a quart jar of Angel LaGuerta's freshest bathtub rum would be a pretty decent prescription for whatever it is."

Arthur stared at Eames for a second before saying, "The rum's in a glass jar, right?"

"Of course."

"And it's his best stuff?"

"He has a soft spot for me," said Eames, sounding entirely too sure of himself.

"So there's only a forty percent chance we'll wake up blind," said Arthur. Even sealed in a jar, he could scent a hint of LaGuerta's brew already.

Eames grinned. "I've set up a tidy nest egg for us to retire on, just in case," he said. "Come on, the mole's getting cold and I know how much you hate microwaved rice."

Arthur looked at him for just a second more, then let himself smile just a little, and put the car into gear. "It always comes out crunchy and nasty," he grumbled to save face.

Eames chuckled and put his hand over Arthur's on the shifter. "So you've informed me, darling." Then he pulled his hand back, and once again they were just Arthur and Eames: two of the best in the business, there to watch each other's back even when they bickered like schoolchildren; partners because sometimes... sometimes Eames made Arthur laugh when he wanted to die. Arthur slanted Eames one last glance and felt the corners of his mouth turn up.

Sometimes, Eames made Arthur happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, sorry about the delay -- I had to finish that pesky M.A. and then... well, then this chapter got a little out of hand. I started this story back in December as a complete puff-piece. "Ha ha -- it'd be funny to see Mystery Spot from the point of view of someone stuck in the loop -- and ooh, phone sex!" Maybe 5k, a few bits emotional, but most of it fun and goofy. 
> 
> Then Cally and Bridget and DS took a look at it and informed me that, "No, the _real_ story starts on Wednesday." And we all chatted and wrote and certain facts about this 'verse I hadn't understood previously revealed themselves. It was a bizarre moment for me, an admiral in the Eames/Arthur armada, who still believes this series will ultimately be "Eames/Arthur, past Sam/Arthur," when I realized that 'oh, fuck: Arthur _loves_ Sam and he is about to... oh they're both going to be so fucked over by this." It's Shakespearean tragedy: even though Gabe ships Sam/Arthur (a fact which may be further elaborated on later, if I ever convince Lass to write it), there was simply never a question of who Sam was going to choose at the Mystery Spot. There's just a bit left to tell in this season three trilogy -- hopefully that story won't manage to double the word count of the entire series. **shakes head**
> 
> All of my love and gratitude to the everyone who helped me write and beta and revise when weaknesses that had been in the outline since the earliest days suddenly became glaringly obvious on the last run-through. I love you all dearly, even you Cally, even when you made me write a scene so angsty that I broke out into hives. (If you need it, there's photographic proof.) 
> 
> Oh - and in case some of you missed it: back in March, [I posted the series' timeline](http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/87042.html) to anyone who wants to join in on the fun (oh, right now, what I'd give for some fluffy Sam/Arthur Stanford era fic). There's a couple of spoilers still left in there, but with this story out of the way, I think most of the biggest surprises are finally in the open.
> 
> And thanks for making it through to the end, and for your patience, and for reading.


End file.
